Don't Call it a Love Triangle
by khaki knight
Summary: Maria hates the phrase love triangle. “Oh gawd. Gag me with a spoon, or at least do something to save me from this most trite, hackneyed, and cliched situation likely ever seen."


_**Don't Call it a Love Triangle**_

_A crack-ish, stream of thought-ish, angst-fest shoe-horned in after the events of **Star Ocean: TTEOT**__, presented to you always as by khaki knight._

_Disclaimer: **Star Ocean: TTEOT **and characters, related ideas, etc. are the legal property of **tri-Ace/Square-Enix**__. Characters, etc. are only borrowed for what I hope will be entertainment purposes. Or what is hopefully entertainment. Anyway, this fic is strictly non-profit – actually, if it weren't for my day job, I wouldn't be making any cash at all. This disclaimer applies to the entire work. Insert more legal jargon here if it will keep me from facing a lawsuit. Too late for regrets..._

**OOO**

Fayt's staring at me again.

He's been doing that more and more, recently. Just as now, he probably isn't even really aware of what he's doing. If I'm nearby and he has a minute, his gaze will just naturally wander over to me, as he thinks thoughts that I try not to second guess. Sometimes – the worst times – he'll have a silly (adorable) little grin on his face after a few moments.

I guess we all put our lives on hold while trying to deal with Luther, to a certain degree. And now that that crisis has finally, _permanently, _passed away, every last bit we put off has come calling. While I know it was inevitable, there is a tiny part of me that in some ways wishes that the crisis was _still there_ to provide an excuse to keep ducking away from... _it_.

...That probably sounds horribly cold hearted. I mean, we lost Earth and countless other worlds, millions upon untold millions of sentient beings slaughtered in an effort to protect the 4-D universe's hegemony and dominance. It would be selfish to say that my... _our _problems somehow out-weigh them... Even so, that doesn't mean I _like_ dealing with it.

But that doesn't change the fact that we're _here, _at the controls of the _Eagle II_, the two of us trapped in a closed compartment ostensibly flying a ship that – we have to honestly admit – practically flies itself, or that he's staring, or that I so desperately want to stare back.

I'm not going to return his gaze. I'm _not_. Even_ if_ every fiber in my being suddenly has the desire to stand up from my cramped console, take a few short steps, then drop myself into his lap, all the while—

My little fantasy is suddenly broken by the sound of the rear hatch swooshing open. Little Sophia, hair wet from a shower, strolls onto the bridge (such as can be found on a tiny ship like the _Eagle II_). She smells like peaches and sunsets, if sunsets could have a smell. She smiles brightly at Fayt, and he returns that smile back honestly.

Cue the dramatic music, folks. After a few seconds, Fayt suddenly become self-conscious (of the fact that I'm still here) and awkwardly turns back to his display. Awkward... now there's a word that fits the situation perfectly. An awkward silence fills the little cabin, and Sophia vainly tries to start a conversation to cover it. Amazingly enough, neither Fayt or I feel much like talking. I wonder why?

Still though, I guess I can't fault Ms. Teen-Dream for her cheery efforts. Or, really, much of anything... she's the perfect little homemaker, isn't she? To be honest, Sophia always vaguely reminded me of the bubbly younger sister that I never had... and also which you could never turn off.

No, actually, I really _wouldn't _like any of your cookies.

I check my watch; this was all becoming unbearable. I fake a yawn, then offer some sort of excuse about being overly tired. Fayt has a confused (hurt?) look on his face, and Sophia... well, she smiles sunnily as if there was not a thing wrong with our shattered universe and wishes me a good rest.

You know that real damning thing about that? She _means_ it. I _know _she means it. She'd wish well even on her worse enemy, I swear to Luther. I just shake my head as I stalk out of the _Eagle II_'s cabin. I close my eyes and rest on the other side of the closed door for a moment.

She certainly makes it hard to hate her.

As I stalk along the cramped corridors, my mind descends into a sort of haze. 'Why oh why did I volunteer to come along?' I ask myself plaintively. The response almost always comes back in seconds: 'Because you couldn't bear the thought of the two of them alone on this trip.'

And so there it is, folks. Maria Traydor, the tough as nails former commander of the anti-Federation organization Quark, one of the fated three, has forced this situation because a green-eyed monster had stirred in her breast at just the right moment. The irony and horror of the situation threatens to overwhelm me every time I think about it. _I _forced this situation. _I _made it happen. And, damn it all to hell, I'm not entirely sure I would do anything different if offered the same choice again.

Why?

The fated three – the three children who saved the universe as we know it: Fayt Leingod, Maria Traydor, Sophia Esteed. Despite this (largely self-imposed) fancy title, despite all accomplished, still achingly human and frail, and still two young women in love with the same young man.

Fated three, like the points in a triangle...

Oh _gawd. _Gag me with a spoon, or at least do something to save me from this most trite, hackneyed, and clichéd situation likely _ever_ _seen. _

Stop me if you've ever heard this one before. Boy meets girl. Boy meets other girl. Angst ensues. I'm right when I say – barring a few minor differences here and there (boy, girl, and girl save universe) – that sounds like practically every cheap, dime store novella – or, even worse, _soap opera_ – ever written.

Ha... love triangle. I hate that phrase.

I punch in my code a bit too energetically into the key pad, then tromp into my cramped quarters. I think about looking up how much longer is left on this seemingly endless trip to where-ever the hell we're going (at this point, does either even really matter?), but decide against it. Instead, I flop onto the bed, staring up at the metal ceiling.

I'd love for this trip to be over.

Ugh. There's that word again. _Love. _Life was a lot simpler before I had to consider all the dimensions of that word. _Love _was for the self-absorbed among the Federation; _I _had work to do.

As I grab a towel and a robe and head for the cramped bath facilities on board, I can only shake my head at it all. Could it have been any more perfect? The best friends and the new comrades. I had known Fayt far less time than Sophia, and yet... and yet here we were.

By all accounts, I should, in fact, probably hate Fayt. It was his father who placed this whole mess squarely on our shoulders. Genetic tampering, symbology, and beings unto gods, oh my!

And yet... And yet, there was something about Fayt. He was a little goofy sometimes, occasionally stand-offish... But... I guess I'll be honest – that's supposed to be the best policy. He's always able to cheer me up. He never lets me down. He's pretty – _weak in the knees_ pretty. He has a silly exuberance for battle simulators. He never liked coffee. He prefers chocolate shakes to most other flavors. He sometimes gets this dreamy expression when he's deep in thought. He can be serious when he has to be, but a silly grin is never that far from his face. On the battlefield, his expression is _always_ grim, but after he looks like he just wants to forget everything about combat. He frets needlessly about his friends. He never plans very far ahead. He snores. He always looks at me tenderly...

Oh, but _bzzt_! There _is _a slight problem, Ms. Traydor! He comes attached at the hip to a darling little homemaker he's known for years. They have an ease about them, granted as it only can be by long familiarity. At their best, they operate almost like a unit, anticipating and reacting flawlessly. Between them stretches the sort of affection which is always just one step away from blossoming into love...

I... _want that_, that _closeness_. There_ is _a spark between Fayt and I, but for the time being, nothing like...

And in her heart of hearts, Maria Traydor fears that a certain little princess may have an impossible lead in the race for Mr. Leingod's heart. Verily, Ms. Traydor doth fear this above all else.

(But don't tell her I said that.)

Ha! I must sound like a crackpot by now. I'm afraid that's what this all has done to me. I seem to be permanently caught between wanting something _so bad _yet being afraid that I can't _get it_, and at the same time fearing that I _might_.

It almost seems destined, doesn't it? The childhood friends growing into lovers? Whenever I dare hope that Fayt and I... it always comes with that damnable caveat: _you'll wreck her dreams, the life she's supposed to have with him, the life that seems to draw inexorable closer. Do you really want to do that to her? To them?_

It would be so much easier if I _could_ hate her.

At times during our long campaign against Luther, I mused how everything seemed so unreal, like something you'd play in one of those chintzy video games. And now, what have we wrought with our battle won? A new situation, straight out of a poorly written drama.

(Tria help me, if you please.)

As I settle into the full-sized bath (argued long and hard with Cliff to have that installed) sometimes I wonder even if Sophia and Fayt realize what's going on. It's only when I'm at my most uncharitable, though, I promise. But could you imagine? Stumbling into a love triangle where two of the players don't even realize what's going on? Or, even worse, what if you only _think _you're in a love triangle, but no one else does?

Of course, then I catch Sophia looking like she's about to cry in the hall, or Fayt with a serious expression on his face when he's alone on the _Eagle_'s bridge. Nope. "There ain't no getting offa this train we're on," said a wise man once... I forget who... Maybe I read it in a fortune cookie.

Does it matter? Not really.

I morosely reflect that sooner or later this is going to end – our 'train' is going to slam head first into its station eventually. You wanna know the real irony? Considering how messily and badly this is going to end, no matter _how _it ends, I almost prefer this horrible lurch we're in. As I lean my head back against the basin, is it any wonder I want another crisis to consume all our time and energy?

Later, as I lay in bed again staring up at the ceiling, I realize that tomorrow I'm going to have to get up and slog through it all once more; even worse, thanks to rotating duty shifts, I'll have to spend the first few hours with Sophia. I close my eyes, and realize that I honestly feel like crying. Or maybe laughing hysterically. Or maybe both.

Love triangle... I _hate _that phrase.


End file.
